Young Seniors: Dreaming of a wizard
by Angels-above
Summary: Ever wondered how Tom and Carl became Wizards? What happened on their ordeal? First story, hopefully in a series!Please read and review!xxx Chapter 2 up soon!


-1Author's note: Dai stiho guys! Well met on the common journey!

This is my first ever YW story! Yay! Anyway, I noticed that there aren't many stories about our lovely seniors Tom and Carl, and this one has been going around my head for a while. So basically this is their story. How they became wizards, how they survived their ordeal, and most importantly how they became partners.

Warning: this may actually end up as slash, but there should only be very very mild hints, so much that unless you look for them, they shouldn't be noticed! I mean they are 12 and 13...but I might put some in later. I will warn you when that happens okay?

Story summary: Meet Tom, a normal, if abnormally smart, twelve year old. Except Tom is anything but normal; he's a wizard. From the moment he takes the oath, his world is turned upside down. Children all over the world are falling into coma's and they aren't waking up. The adult wizards have no idea what to do. Its said that every wizard is the answer to one particular problem, but can Tom and his fellow wizard Carl, unravel this one in time?

Disclaimer: The characters belong to Diane Duane, and I am nothing but a humble fan? Okay?

Young seniors series : Dreaming of a wizard

Angels-above

Chapter one- Discovery 

Tom felt a fist connect with his stomach and automatically curled up, as pain ripped through him. Someone kicked his legs out from under him, sending him tumbling to land in a heap on the hard dirt packed floor, all the air rushing from his lungs leaving him winded. He lay there curled in a protective ball, vainly trying to make himself as small as possible. They kicked and punched him repeatedly, a seemingly never ending rain of blows, delivered with precise air of someone who has had a lot of practice. He bit his lower lip hard, to prevent any sound escaping. Yes they could beat him up, insult him and basically make his life a living hell, but he wasn't going to give them the satisfaction of hearing him groan. So he lay there, quietly taking the abuse, pain blossoming like fireworks all over his body, his eyes scrunched up so tight that he swore that he could see stars. After what felt like an eternity it stopped, and he had to prevent himself from letting out a sigh of relief. Or maybe not, he thought abstractly, as a hand viscously grabbed his ear and dragged him up. He felt hot breath on the side of his face, clammy and moist, and smelling faintly of cigarettes. He turned his head away in disgust, but a hand grabbed his chin roughly.

"You don't tell no one, you got it Swale?" Tom stayed silent, and felt a fist punch him hard in the side of the head. He let out an involuntary gasp.

"Got it?" the voice whispered again menacingly. Tom finally nodded. The hand released him and threw him back to the floor. He just lay there unmoving, listening to them climb on their bikes and pedal away, laughing spitefully, shouting insults as they went. Finally it was all quiet. Tom slowly opened his right eye, his left being swollen shut, and regarded his surroundings. He was on one of the back paths behind the local high school, hidden from the view of the houses and road by a large group of trees. The sky was slowly darkening as the sun set in a stunning array of gold, pink and soft purple. He sighed, and gently levered himself upright, and with a practised air, examined his injuries. Aside from the various cuts and bruises all over him, he had a black eye, a cut on his forehead, what felt like a broken finger, and an ankle which he had twisted when he had tripped, when he was running to escape earlier. He knew that his stomach was going to be one big bruise tomorrow, no doubt in a lovely assortment of blues greens, purples and yellows. He slowly pushed himself into a standing position, careful of his ankle, and looked around frantically for his bag. They hadn't taken that had they? But no there it was, lying a few metres away, a bit muddy but apart from that fine. Tom sighed in relief; he needed his bag, it contained all his textbooks. Over spring break the school cleaned their lockers, asking the students to empty them of whatever was in there, in a vain attempt by the school board to reduce the smell of old gym shorts in some of the boys lockers. A hopeless task Tom thought, but he couldn't blame them for trying, even if it was futile, and even if the smell would return after only a few weeks. That wasn't the only important thing that the bag contained however; it also housed two of his notebooks. Tom loved to read and write and would quite happily sit on a bench for a whole day just scribbling down ideas and observations. A good writer, he reasoned, had to be able to accurately describe his surroundings, and he made sure to practice every time he got. He had filled over ten A5 notebooks in the last 10 months, all with observations, poems and short stories. He didn't know quite what he would do if he lost even one of them. He scooped up the battered black backpack, hanging it from one hand .He licked his lips, surprised to feel it sting, and taste the metallic tang of blood. How had that happened? Then it dawned on him; in his desperate attempt not to make a sound he had bitten through his lip. He angrily yanked his bag open, noting the presence of his books and his plain red notebooks with relief. He pulled out his flask, taking a gulp of the slightly warm metallic tasting water, washing his mouth around, before spitting it out onto the ground next to him. Then he took several longer draughts, enjoying the sensation of the water as it rushed down his dry throat, slowing calming him down. Stuffing the metal bottle back in his bag, he considered the quickest route he could take home. After deliberating a moment, he wandered down a path heading right. As he walked along, limping slightly, he contemplated what had started the fight today. Well, it might have something to do with me insulting Gareth again, he pondered, as he wound his way down the streets, his trainers scuffing the worn concrete .But in his defence the older boy had asked for it. Just because Tom wasn't so easily impressed with his new jacket. It made him look like an idiot, with it's turned up collar, and flaring cuffs, and for some reason Gareth took offence when Tom had offered this opinion when asked. Okay that was a slight understatement. Gareth had decided to pummel Tom into a bloody pulp. But it was almost worth it, Tom thought as he turned onto Rose Avenue, letting out a quiet chuckle, just to see Gareth's confounded face when Tom had used words longer than three syllables , and then Gareth's embarrassed outrage when the meaning had been whispered in his ear by one of his many lackeys. Tom trudged up the steps leading to his front door, with a slight smile. Gareth would of beaten Tom up at some point this week anyway, so Tom might as well get a laugh out of it. He quietly unlocked the door, and softly closed it behind him, pulling his trainers off, and tiptoeing in his sock clad feet across the wide open plan living room and kitchen area. His father was sat on the couch reading the local evening newspaper, with a tired look on his face. Tom's father was a doctor, and worked long hours in the children's department at a large hospital in New York. He was a nice man, who was being slowly worn down each day by despair at the fact that no matter what he did, he couldn't save every child. Tom heard a clatter of pots in kitchen where his mama was making dinner. Tom took a sniff of the delicious aromas coming from the numerous pots on the stove. Pasta tonight, his favourite. He crept quietly forward, and was almost at the stairs, when he had a quiet questioning cough, and a weary voice call his name. Tom frowned in frustration, and slowly turned around facing his parents. His mother, a slim pretty woman in her early forties, with grey shot black hair, stood there hands on her hips, a dishcloth over her shoulder and a no nonsense look on he face. He blue eyes filled with concern when seeing her youngest child.

"Tom, what did they do to you baby?" she reached forward and gently clasped his chin with a callused hand.

"It's nothing mama" Tom said sullenly, his blue eyes fixed firmly on the carpet.

"Robert" his mama called over her shoulder, voice worried. Tom heard a sigh, and a rustle of a newspaper as it was lain aside. His father wandered over, glasses still perched on the end of his thin nose. He was a formidable man, tall and with broad shoulders, who projected an air of stern kindness. Tom wished he could be like his father, but it seemed unlikely; he was small for his age, and slightly scrawny. Tom's father looked down at his smallest child, with a look of resignation.

"What happened son?" Tom knew that he couldn't side step this question. He ripped his eyes away from their concentrated analysis of the carpet and looked at his dad.

"Gareth and some boys were admiring his new jacket, and he asked me what I thought. I wasn't as complimentary as he seemed to think I should be." He shrugged, trying to fake nonchalance. Dr Swale took his glasses off and rubbed the bridge of nose with a look of defeat.

"Look Tom, I'm a doctor and I don't really condone violence, but couldn't you defend yourself ?I mean look what they do to you" he gestured to Tom's bedraggled appearance "You can't just bury your head in the sand and hope it will go away."

"I know" Tom replied, through gritted teeth "but whenever I try, they just get more and more people. So why bother?" He looked up defiantly into his dad's eyes. Dr Swale sighed again, and nodded.

"Okay. Then Maybe I should have a word with this Gareth person's father" Tom felt his eyes widen in terror and dismay at the thought of what they would do to him following that meeting.

"No! Please! Let me sort this out myself okay? I'll never be able to learn anything otherwise." His father glanced over at his mama, who had been silent through the whole exchange, and they communicated silently in that way good parents had.

"All right." his mama said after a moment, resignation on her face at the sight of Tom's resolute expression. "But you sort it out fast okay? This has got to stop Thomas do you hear? It's been going on for over four months now!" Tom nodded. He had no idea how he was going to stop it, but he would, of that he was determined. He had had enough of coming home bruised and bleeding, only to be faced with an upset mother and a confused father. Now the only problem was going to be _how._

The ring of the house phone could be heard from its place by the sofa, breaking the awkward atmosphere that had descended, demanding attention. Toms father took one more look at him, his lips slightly pursed, a slightly frustrated from marring his forehead, before sighing and turning around, and walking toward the living room. Tom felt his shoulders droop; he didn't want to disappoint his father all the time, but that was all he ever seemed to do, no matter how hard he tried. A warm hand ruffled his hair and he looked up.

"Go upstairs and wash those cuts, and I'll be up in a moment okay?" Tom nodded with a slight smile to his mother. She understood better than his father. Mrs Swale knew that it wasn't easy to fight back when you were so outnumbered. His father, who had never been bullied at school, had always been popular and smart, didn't understand what Tom was going through.

"And you rest that ankle" his father called gruffly, hanging up the phone. "I saw you limping when you came in and you don't want it swelling up any more. Its should be fine tomorrow, if it's elevated with an ice pack. Okay?" Tom nodded, a slight smile pulling at his mouth. He father may not have understood, but that didn't mean he wasn't trying. His mother smiled softly at her small 12 year old son, before heading over to where his father stood, drinking the last dregs of his coffee, a worried frown on his face. Tom slung his bag more securely on his shoulder and started up the curved wooden stairs, the carpet feeling soft to his sore feet, pausing just around the corner when he heard his mother's concerned voice.

" Who was that? The hospital? I hope they aren't calling you back again. You only got home a few hours ago." Tom heard his father sigh from where he stood.

"Yeah they asked me to come in for a few hours. I'm sorry honey, but another Childs been brought in, in a suspected coma, they want my opinion. More and more children seem to be falling into comas recently, and there seem to be no reason…"

" It's okay, just don't push yourself to hard alright? Do you know when you'll be back?"

" Tonight I hope…" Tom started up the stairs again, his feet dragging somewhat ; it seemed to him that his father was barely ever home at the moment. He knew that his mother was worried about him, and understandably too.

His thoughts occupied, he padded across the landing to the bathroom, and pushed open the door, shutting it behind him. He walked slowly over to the bath and sank onto the corner of it, relaxing for a moment, before reaching for the washcloth. He wet it with warm water, and wiped it over his grimy face, hissing as it touched the cuts. He efficiently washed all the cuts on his arms, and hands. Then after washing it out, placed the washcloth neatly back on the side of the bath. As he stood up he caught his reflection in the mirror over the sink. A slim boy looked back, with a pale open face, wide blue eyes, long black eyelashes and a thin nose. Just now one of his eyes was swollen shut, and was slowly darkening to a mauve like colour. There was a cut on his forehead, under his long messy black hair. He looked clever, but shy. That just about sums me up, Tom thought with a wry grin, as walked out of the bathroom and down the corridor. Sam's door opened as he passed, and Tom's older brother poked his head. At 14 he was two years older than Tom, and a sporting genius.

"What you gone and done now Tommie?" Tom just shrugged.

"Just the usual."

"Ah" Sam said a knowing look on his face. He leaned against the door frame, and observed his younger brother. "You get the lecture from dad yet?" Tom nodded, smiling slightly. He got on quite well with Sam. He could be annoying, but as brothers went, he was alright. A look of worry appeared in Sam's brown eyes.

"You want me to sort this Gareth out? Teach him a lesson?"

"No thanks. I'll be fine. Anyway I wanna do it on my own okay?" Sam chuckled. His little brother had some sprit, he gave him that.

"Okay then, shove off, I gotta do some homework" Sam gave him a friendly push. Tom laughed; when Sam said homework he more likely meant he wanted to read sports magazines. But Sam maintained that since he wanted to work in sport that _was _homework. No one was fooled, but then again Sam did well in his classes with seemingly no effort, so no one really minded.

"Oh Sam" he called, turning around. Sam, halfway through closing the door, pulled it open again

"What?"

"You seen Mark?" Sam frowned for a moment then shook his head.

"Nope, sorry. He's probably out with his girlfriend or something"

"Okay thanks" Tom said, before continuing his way down the corridor. Mark was his and Sam's older brother. At 18 he had left school, and was studying at the local college. He had been a great brother when they had all been younger, but recently he had changed. He had become more arrogant, and was prone to making snide comments. He was incredibly smart and was following their father's footsteps and studying medicine, and Dr Swale was ecstatic that at least one son would become a doctor. Maybe that was why he was becoming so overly confident. In any case, Tom wasn't in the mood to deal with Mark's interfering, so he was grateful that he wasn't home.

He had the room at the end of the corridor , overlooking the large backyard. He walked into the now dark room, and closed the door softly behind him, dumping his bag onto the chair by his desk . Wandering over to his bed, he switched on the bedside lamp filling the room with soft yellow light, then sank down on the sit comfortable bed. He winced slightly as he leaned back against the wall, pressing against an unknown bruise on his back. His room was reasonably tidy, for a boy he guessed. Okay not every piece of clothing was put away, and most were chucked haphazardly around the room, but at least some were hung up in the wardrobe. His bookcase was in the corner, and was overflowing with books of all shapes and sizes, on almost every subject. His favourite genre was fantasy and magic, but he could quite happily surround himself in non fiction. It was all knowledge and writing to Tom, and every book, no, **every word **was precious. His desk was in a reasonable state of confused order, that to anyone else would most likely look like it had no plan whatsoever, but he knew where every little thing was. His walls were a plain blue, and covered with posters varying from one of the solar system, detailing the orbits of all the planets, and their distance from the sun, with other useful information , to pictures of various authors and even one of Albert Einstein.

He relaxed on the soft bed, pulling his Paddington bear duvet closer around him. All of him hurt, but he was so used to it now. Was there even much point in wasting effort in trying to fight back? He was interrupted by a gentle knock from the door and he slowly eased himself into a

more upright position. His Mama slipped her head around the door , and seeing that he was awake, she slowly edged around the door, closing it gently behind her. She placed his dinner on a tray on his bedside table. He moved over slightly, tugging the duvet straight and she sat on the edge of his bed, with a quick smile of thanks.

" Your dad told me to give you these" she gestured to the pills next to the tall glass filled with milk. He smiled softly at her, fighting the wince that the movement of his cheek initiated. He scoped them up and took a swig of the milk, swallowing them down, quickly and without a fuss. He wiped his hand across mouth to remove the inevitable milk moustache .

" Is he angry?" Tom said, looking into his mothers eyes questioningly, carefully watching her reaction. She sighed, and smiled sadly.

" No. He is worried about you though. He has never really gone through what you are going through and so has no idea how to handle it . He is trying baby, but your dad, well…" she trailed off, and Tom nodded understandingly.

" Has he gone back to the hospital again?" he questioned, placing his dinner tray on his lap, and neatly twirling some pasta up on his fork, before placing it in his mouth. She nodded, looking tired.

" Yeah. Another one of those poor little mites has been brought in, a coma apparently. What's worrying your father and the other doctors though, is that more and more children and falling unconscious, more than the usual. Some of them, they know why, but some just go asleep one day and never wake up. They just can't figure it out, they have nothing in common, and they haven't banged their heads that the parents know, it's a mystery…I can't possibly imagine how their parents are feeling. They have no idea why their child won't wake up, and they're helpless.." she trailed off, starring out of the window, into the slowly darkening sky. After a moment she shook her head and turned back to Tom, a reassuring smile on her face.

" Ah well, don't you worry 'bout it. You eat this up, and I'll come up and collect the plate later okay? " she ruffled his hair again, then stood up, pulling her skirt straight. " I'll do the washing up for tonight, but you can do it tomorrow okay? Your not escaping your chores young man!" he grinned, ignoring the pain in his face.

" Yes ma'am. The dishes will no doubt mourn without my gentle touch…" his mother chuckled, a twinkle in her blue eyes, so much like Tom's own.

" You are strange sometimes you know that?" but she grinned back at him. " Get a good nights sleep alright? Sweet dreams…" and she slowly pulled the door to, and he heard her footsteps retreat down the corridor, calling out something he didn't hear to Sam, his brothers splutter of laughter caring through the house.

Tom ate his dinner preoccupied, at last finishing it and placing it on the bedside table next to him. The exhaustion was staring to catch up with him, and his entire body ached. He had best get ready for bed, he felt ready to crash. He dragged himself through the usual method of brushing his teeth and washing his face, half asleep now, before stumbling back to his room, to collapse on his bed. He wrapped the covers around him and watched the shadows play across his wall, contorting into a variation of twisted shapes. He could hear the cars passing occasionally on the road and the sound of the radio in his brothers room, the sound echoing softly. The last sound he thought he heard before drifting to sleep, was a young child's laugh. But it couldn't be, all the children would be asleep by now… wouldn't they?

Young Seniors 

Thank you so much for reading, and I will do my best to update as soon as possible. I apologise in advance for any mistakes I make about American society or the school system… I'm English, so my knowledge of that sort thing is limited but I will do my best okay?

So please review I would love to hear what you think…and you might as well, the buttons right there! Thanks!

Dai stiho guys, until the next time.


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